o him
for help in little difficulties; she knew that Leslie trusted him with
all her affairs, and he was as close as any man could be to an intimacy
with Hendrick von Behrens. Quietly, almost indifferently, he would
settle his round eyeglasses on their black ribbon, narrow his fine, keen
eyes and set his firm jaw, and take up their problems one by one, always
courteous, always interested, always helpful.

Then Chris had charm, as visible to all the world as to Norma. He had
the charm of race, of intelligence and education, the charm of a man who
prides himself upon his Italian and French, upon his knowledge of books
and pictures, and his capacity for holding his own in any group, on any
subject. He was quite frankly a collector, a connoisseur, a dilettante
in a hundred different directions, and he had had leisure all his life
to develop and perfect his affectations. In all this new world Norma
could not perhaps have discovered a man more rich in just what would
impress her ignorance, her newness, to the finer aspects of
civilization.

For a few weeks after "Aida," as other operas and Annie's tea, and the
opening social life of the winter softened the first impression, Norma
tried to tell herself that she had imagined a little tendency, on
Chris's part, too--well, to impress her with his friendliness. She had
seen him flirt with other women, and indeed small love affairs of all
sorts were constantly current, not only in Annie's, but in Leslie's
group. A certain laxity was in the air, and every month had its
separation or divorce, to be flung to the gossips for dissection.

Norma was not especially flattered at first, and rather inclined to
resent the assurance with which Chris carried his well-known tendency
for philandering into his own family, as it were. But as the full days
went by, and she encountered in him, wherever they met, the same grave,
kindly attention, the same pleasant mouth and curiously baffling eyes,
in spite of herself she began to experience a certain breathless and
half-flattered and half-frightened pride in his affection.

He never kissed her again, never tried to arrange even the most casual
meeting alone with her, and never let escape even a word of more than
brotherly friendliness. But in Leslie's drawing-room at tea time, or at
some studio tea or Sunday luncheon in a country house, he always quietly
joined her, kept, if possible, within the sound of her voice, and never
had any plan that wou